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Authors: Jack Pendarvis
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here.”
Puddin’ explained how to put the megaphone over the wastebasket, where to put my mouth, and when to take a deep breath and hold it.
The effect was like being shot in the chest with a hollow-tipped bullet of happiness. I can wholeheartedly recommend this method of consuming hash to any man, woman or child in the United States.
Puddin’ grinned. “It’s an instant high,” she said. “I’m glad we didn’t have the rolling papers. Now it’s my turn.”
Puddin’ showed me how to smash the hash between the red-hot butter knife and the red-hot license plate, producing the wonderful smoke. She, too, breathed it in through the small end of the megaphone. We took several turns apiece and it was just the most pleasant morning you can think of. We got very wise and our heads opened up and that little tollbooth seemed like a universe of space.
Puddin’ told me she could hear what the radios were playing in cars a hundred miles up the highway.
“What’s so great about maple trees?” I said. “Let’s start a business where we make syrup out of pine trees.”
“Let’s call Prince on my cell phone,” she said. “No, let’s go to his house and throw rocks through his windows until he comes outside. It’s a three-day drive to Minneapolis from here. I’ll call India and she’ll come pick us up. We’ll sell the rest of this hash on the way and then we’ll have enough money to make your demo.”
“What demo?” I said.
“You need some ambition,” said Puddin’. “Prince can help you.”
I became aware that a horn had been honking for some time. Puddin’ started to say something about something but I held up my hand to shush her. We listened. It was amazing, because I realized that every honk of the horn was filled with literally millions of tones and overtones and undertones, some that the human ear was not meant to hear, but suddenly I could hear every layer. It was everything at once. It destroyed all the symphonies and concerti ever composed.
“A car horn is a perfect machine,” I said. “I’m glad the band broke up.”
I got to my feet and looked out the window. I realized that glass is just a slow-moving liquid. I saw the Volvo station wagon. There was a handsome man inside. He reminded me of Hamlet. Intense. Even from the tollbooth window I could tell that his eyelashes were really nice and luxurious.
“You’re like the me that could have been, if everything had worked out good,” I said. I suppose it was the hash talking.
Hamlet blinked at me and I started freaking out because I thought I could hear the soft sighs of his eyelashes.
“Let me get your hash,” I said.
I looked down at the hash. A lot of it wasn’t there anymore. The rest of it we had stepped in, and tracked all around the tollbooth, or sat in, or rolled around on. It was a terrible mess.
“One minute,” I said.
I crouched down and asked Puddin’ to put the hash back together again, the way she had promised. Then I popped back up.
“We’re getting it ready right this second,” I said. “Thank you for your patience.”
I noticed that there was a long line of angry cars behind Hamlet. I noticed that he was getting something out of the glove compartment.
“How’s it coming, Puddin’?” I said.
I looked behind me to see Puddin’ crawling out the door of the booth.
I ran out after her.
We hauled butt across the paths of three other tollbooths and into the weeds on the wilder side of the highway. We pushed through a stand of scraggly saplings and went up the embankment to a chain link fence that neither of us was in the mood to climb. We kept following the fence, hoping it would end, but it never did.
“Stop,” said Puddin’. “I know that Waffle House.” She took out her cell phone and called India. “I’m on a hill overlooking the good Waffle House,” she said. “You have to come get me. Bring wire cutters.”
Soon I found myself lying in the back of India’s van with her sheepdog. I
Puddin’ explained how to put the megaphone over the wastebasket, where to put my mouth, and when to take a deep breath and hold it.
The effect was like being shot in the chest with a hollow-tipped bullet of happiness. I can wholeheartedly recommend this method of consuming hash to any man, woman or child in the United States.
Puddin’ grinned. “It’s an instant high,” she said. “I’m glad we didn’t have the rolling papers. Now it’s my turn.”
Puddin’ showed me how to smash the hash between the red-hot butter knife and the red-hot license plate, producing the wonderful smoke. She, too, breathed it in through the small end of the megaphone. We took several turns apiece and it was just the most pleasant morning you can think of. We got very wise and our heads opened up and that little tollbooth seemed like a universe of space.
Puddin’ told me she could hear what the radios were playing in cars a hundred miles up the highway.
“What’s so great about maple trees?” I said. “Let’s start a business where we make syrup out of pine trees.”
“Let’s call Prince on my cell phone,” she said. “No, let’s go to his house and throw rocks through his windows until he comes outside. It’s a three-day drive to Minneapolis from here. I’ll call India and she’ll come pick us up. We’ll sell the rest of this hash on the way and then we’ll have enough money to make your demo.”
“What demo?” I said.
“You need some ambition,” said Puddin’. “Prince can help you.”
I became aware that a horn had been honking for some time. Puddin’ started to say something about something but I held up my hand to shush her. We listened. It was amazing, because I realized that every honk of the horn was filled with literally millions of tones and overtones and undertones, some that the human ear was not meant to hear, but suddenly I could hear every layer. It was everything at once. It destroyed all the symphonies and concerti ever composed.
“A car horn is a perfect machine,” I said. “I’m glad the band broke up.”
I got to my feet and looked out the window. I realized that glass is just a slow-moving liquid. I saw the Volvo station wagon. There was a handsome man inside. He reminded me of Hamlet. Intense. Even from the tollbooth window I could tell that his eyelashes were really nice and luxurious.
“You’re like the me that could have been, if everything had worked out good,” I said. I suppose it was the hash talking.
Hamlet blinked at me and I started freaking out because I thought I could hear the soft sighs of his eyelashes.
“Let me get your hash,” I said.
I looked down at the hash. A lot of it wasn’t there anymore. The rest of it we had stepped in, and tracked all around the tollbooth, or sat in, or rolled around on. It was a terrible mess.
“One minute,” I said.
I crouched down and asked Puddin’ to put the hash back together again, the way she had promised. Then I popped back up.
“We’re getting it ready right this second,” I said. “Thank you for your patience.”
I noticed that there was a long line of angry cars behind Hamlet. I noticed that he was getting something out of the glove compartment.
“How’s it coming, Puddin’?” I said.
I looked behind me to see Puddin’ crawling out the door of the booth.
I ran out after her.
We hauled butt across the paths of three other tollbooths and into the weeds on the wilder side of the highway. We pushed through a stand of scraggly saplings and went up the embankment to a chain link fence that neither of us was in the mood to climb. We kept following the fence, hoping it would end, but it never did.
“Stop,” said Puddin’. “I know that Waffle House.” She took out her cell phone and called India. “I’m on a hill overlooking the good Waffle House,” she said. “You have to come get me. Bring wire cutters.”
Soon I found myself lying in the back of India’s van with her sheepdog. I
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